


Cutting Ties

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY Fair Game [25]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Clumsiness, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Good, Light Angst, M/M, Red String of Fate, Romance, Soulmates, fair game, if only they knew what was coming for them, these two men have the same goals and they're not pure, they're going to get wrecked by this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Qrow has always been able to see the red string of fate which binds people to their soulmates. He’s managed to turn this ability into a career, and he’s quite happy with his profession. It does not matter to him whether he finds his partner or not. He’s never wanted to settle down- not with his misfortune thus far in life.And then, a new client appears, asking for help with a job Qrow rarely takes on: destroying a string of fate. Clover Ebi doesn’t want anything to do with his supposed soulmate.Qrow’s not offended, even though Clover’s string leads back to Qrow.-aka Qrow and Clover both have to decide whether the money or freedom is worth it or not if it means losing someone they’ve never really wanted. Modern AU, Fair Game.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: RWBY Fair Game [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392
Comments: 36
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me just throw this here for now to jumpstart my brain into writing other wips. 
> 
> alt title: stringies on fingies

Qrow is happy with his life.

No one can see his pocket knife as it sits tucked into his belt, tiny and glittering red and silver under the dim, warm lights nestled into the walls. That’s all the better for Qrow, though; he does not need anyone to ask questions, not unless they are a client, after all. And since clients rarely come to him needing Harbinger’s blade, he can rest easy wherever he goes, knowing that the tiny piece of his soul manifested into spiritual steel is close to him, always.

His fingers tap against the hilt idly as he waits in a booth of his favourite bar, the quiet, subdued atmosphere calming after a long day. Leather upholstery squeaks as he shifts, always in time with the saxophone line lilting along, smooth jazz filling the air in the background, providing the perfect canvas, the perfect cover, for the other patrons who murmur and giggle and chatter away the toil in their lives. He sits alone, however, standing out like a sore thumb; he is too gaudy to sit alone, to not demand attention, and he knows it. On any other occasion, he would be going to sit at the bar, waiting to see who may arrive, who may pique his interest for the night.

He is here for business tonight, though, so he remains alone, running fingers through dark hair beginning to streak with grey, gazing out at the subdued clientele through thick lashes. He knows his red eyes must look mahogany in this ambiance; it is what always attracts people first, they always say. Deep-set, almond shaped eyes that shift between burgundy and wine and blood-red, depending on the light- they are his greatest tool, alongside a sharp wit and a charming visage.

Harbinger’s blade is never sharp to his skin, so he runs callused fingertips down the blade, relishing in the cool, silky-smooth feel of metal upon his skin. It is more of a meditative gesture than anything; it is rhythmic, calming. No one can see the motions underneath the table, and even if they did, all they would be able to perceive is his fingers playing with the seam of his slacks, drawing tempting lines upon his hip. He does not mind if they watch.

The time draws near. He takes a swig of his whisky and smiles, preparing himself to meet this new client. The contract is ready to be filled out is satchel, so all he needs are the details. Vaguely, he wonders what this request will be. Perhaps he shall be finding someone’s soulmate; those are the most common requests, after all. Perhaps he shall be examining two lovers, finding out whether they are indeed destined for each other as written in legends. Or, perhaps he shall be seeing whether a couple’s unhappiness comes from their miscommunication or a cruel twist of misfortune.

These are all the usual questions which come to him. He is Qrow Branwen, after all; the quiet observer of the red string of fate, able to see silky spiritual cords tying people to one another through the sands of time. His business is pricey, for it takes time to get to know a client well enough to be able to pick their red string apart from the haze of millions of others crossing the earth everywhere he looks, the sights of cords always lingering like a spirit in the background of any scene. Even in this bar, he can see people’s strings crossing, tying, folding this way and that, thirty little fingers bearing little knots and rosy-red strands which fade away into the deluge below.

Based on the sound of the footsteps upon the floor of the bar, he would assume the floor is polished hardwood. He wouldn’t know, though. All he sees criss-crossed beneath his loafers are ghosts of connections which may never come to fruition.

The door chimes as it opens, and a new set of footsteps begin to walk along that hardwood. Qrow grins, checking his watch _. Right on time._

Within moments, a tall man has found Qrow’s booth, an amicable smile upon his lips as he holds out his hand- not to shake, but to offer a small, familiar white business card, emblazoned with naught but an email and an emblem of a black, stylized eye formed by feathers and clockwork. Qrow grins, nods, and gestures for the man to take a seat.

He does not hesitate to look over the stranger as he gets settled into the booth across from Qrow. He is tall, Qrow realizes- likely as tall as Qrow, but with built shoulders and a muscled chest which is evident even through his zipped-up coat. He unzips it and pulls it off, revealing that Qrow’s assumptions had been on the mark; yet, despite his obvious strength, there is a softness in his face, a kindness within drooping, forest-green eyes. A genial smile seems permanently affixed onto his face even as a waitress arrives to take his order- he asks for naught but an old-fashioned, but his voice is lilting and melodious, and Qrow finds himself leaning back, crossing his arms, and waiting for the stranger’s attention to turn back to him, his own curiosity successfully raised.

Once the waitress has left, he murmurs, “Clover Ebi, I presume?”

Clover smiles, holding out a hand across the table. “And you’re this Qrow Branwen I’ve read about?”

Qrow grins, taking the hand and giving it a firm shake, assessing the other man. Their strength matches one another. “That I am. So,” he says as he leans forward, clasping his hands upon the table, “James gave you this recommendation, correct?” When Clover nods, brushing soft, short-cropped brown hair back from his forehead, Qrow continues, “He’s an old friend, so I’m happy to hear you out. What can I do for you? My prices aren’t cheap, y’know.”

Clover lets out a long, controlled breath, thoughtful as he finds the words to say. “I’m a journalist,” he begins carefully. “I’ve written a million stories on people whose lives have been changed thanks to the red string of fate. Even if my boss hadn’t recommended you directly, I likely would’ve found you sooner or later anyways.”

Qrow hums, smiling sardonically. He doubts it. His services are by reference only for a reason.

“But, since you are able to see the red string of fate, I was wondering… are you able to cut them, too?”

Well. That was unexpected.

Harbinger almost begins to tremble upon his hip, his spirit thrumming, begging to solidify, to be used once again. It has been _years_ since he has brought out his blade- when was the last time he had cut someone’s string? After all, a red string was not exactly something which people could retie once lost. So few people dared to ask for those services, unless it was a dire situation.

Already set on edge, Qrow sits up a little straighter, lowering his voice. “I can, but it’s not something you can go back on. I need to know why.” He is not trying to be invasive, truly; he simply needs to know if he needs to provide the other man with supports after the string is cut. There are services to help those who lose their soulmates. Cutting the string of fate in any way is like cutting away a part of the body, whether people realize it or not.

To his surprise, Clover merely shrugs, nonplussed by the entire affair as if it is just a regular question he normally asks to every stranger he meets in bars; his voice is calm and just as approachable and even as ever when he explains, “I just don’t think it’s worth wasting my life away for someone I’ll never meet.”

“I could help you _find_ them, y’know,” Qrow laughs, raising a brow.

Clover shakes his head, pausing only to thank the waitress as she brings over his drink. “It’s not about that,” he murmurs, spritzing the orange twist into his drink. “It’s about _freedom._ ”

“Not a fan of fate?”

“Not exactly.”

Qrow smiles, watching Clover carefully. He likes Clover Ebi, he decides in this moment. His instincts have always been strong, and his gut is telling him that he’ll enjoy spending time with this man in order to materialize his red string.

So, he raises his own whiskey. “I can cheers to that.”

With a relieved, yet intrigued smile, Clover raises his own glass, and the two men clink and cheers and take a sip, for their business shall be fruitful this night; Clover shall gain his freedom, Qrow’s bank account will be nicely padded, and Harbinger shall taste thread once again.


	2. Chapter 2

It never takes long for Qrow to find his rhythm with new clients. There is a pattern, after all; once the initial introductions are finished, all that remains is to figure out what makes them tick. His goal is not friendship, nor even camaraderie, although they will never realize that. It is naught but _closeness,_ the act of growing so emotionally intimate with another than their red string may materialize, so that this little piece of their soul would grow distinct and open and vulnerable around Qrow.

It is for that reason that Qrow believes he should be far more lauded than he is. He’s the best actor, after all; he can pretend that he is invested in a million and one things which mean less to him than a fly on the wall, remembering the tiniest details and regurgitating them at exactly the right time. He has played the role of countless people, filling in the gaps in his clients’ lives which they never knew they wanted, creating the safe space for their strings to finally appear.

This is his calling, without a doubt.

And yet, with Clover Ebi… it is different.

The first evening they spend together in that bar, Qrow finds that for the first time in years, he loses track of time with his client. No longer are his words calculated, nor are his expressions guarded, playacted. No, Qrow finds that he is genuine with the younger man, laughing and teasing and growing genuinely engaged with his story. Clover is unlike the simpering fools who tend to use his services, as well as the rare clients too heartbroken to be truly engaged as _people_ beyond their shattered shells and their betrayal. Instead, the green-eyed man is vibrant in a way Qrow cannot explain; he speaks with vigour and charm, confidence and wit enough to match Qrow’s own, leaving their conversations more like inquiries, debates, full-on spectacles of words flying between them as they each try and find chinks in each other’s armour. It’s a jarring thing, to be sure; finding how halfway through his third drink that he is completely at ease with the younger, enraptured as Clover shares exactly how his last investigation went, is not exactly how he had expected to spend his evening with his new client.

He even finds himself speaking of his own personal life; he does not mention their names, but Ruby and Yang’s antics are brought up more than once to justify Qrow’s constant fatigue, and Clover seems just as amused by Qrow’s nieces’ antics as Qrow is with Clover’s coworkers. It feels… natural. Right.

He messages James about it. His old colleague merely replies, “Clover’s a good guy. I can imagine you two becoming good friends.”

For once, Qrow has to say that he agrees with James. He doubts materializing Clover’s string shall take more than a month; any longer, and something will have gone wrong.

That, or Clover is secretly an axe murderer who is stellar at hiding his true intent. Either way, Qrow is going to end up with an adventure to break up the monotony of his usual clientele, so he shall take it.

And so, their semi-weekly meet-ups begin. The moment Qrow realizes that Clover is just as relaxed as he is, he ditches the fancier locale in favour of a small dive bar in the dingier corner of the city. Crow Bar always has the cheapest food and the best deals on pitchers, and as Clover clinks glasses with him during their first visit there, it is clear that Qrow has made the right choice.

It is during their third visit, a full week since their first meeting, that Qrow realizes with a sickening wave of nausea what this feeling truly is; after all, seeing a crisp, handsome visage step through the front door of the bar, the bell clanging above his head in welcome, should not bring Qrow as much excited, anticipatory joy as it does. And yet, there truly is no other way to describe what is happening, for his heart glows in response to Clover’s voice ringing through the air in greeting.

“You mentioned freedom,” Qrow murmurs during their fourth meetup, playing with the umbrella on his drink idly. The margaritas they have bought for fun are surprisingly delicious, and nothing is quite as funny that day as seeing Clover leave his sunglasses on in jest so they can pretend they are on an exotic vacation and not in the downtown back alleys of Vale; he sips his again and adds, “Tell me more.”

Clover shrugs, an easygoing smile on his lips as he leans his head onto his hand, watching Qrow with a simple smile. “I mean, what’s there to say?” he chuckles, musical voice thoughtful, curious. “I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve seen soulmates go terribly wrong time and time again- whether it’s from people falling in love with the wrong person, or from soulmates growing toxic, or from people turning away happiness for fear of losing out a chance on ‘perfection’.” His expression grows sour as he speaks, bitterness evident in every word. “It’s so rare to find someone who can actually see the string of fate- I can understand why you keep your little business under wraps-“ Qrow raises his glass in cheers to that, for Qrow has no desire to be put into the spotlight for fear of losing his anonymity, “-so people instead tend to go too far.”

“They suffer for it,” Qrow agrees, watching ice crystals melt somberly, condensation rolling down the side of his glass.

Clover hums, nodding wearily, the world’s weight upon his shoulders. “Not to mention the amount of deluded people who _think_ they’ve found their soulmate, only to actually be trapped in the world’s worst relationships.”

Qrow sighs, nodding. He has seen far too many people with abusive lovers thanks to his powers. The idea of a soulmate is indeed tantalizing, but the power of the red string… He shuddered just thinking about what it has made people do, what it has given people the _power_ to do.

After all, claiming someone is one’s soulmate is an easy way to gain control over their lives. It is horrifying business.

Harbinger thrums, vibrating with an energy so desperate to be released as he thinks of this. _That_ is why Harbinger exists- to destroy those decrepit bonds, to find the truth.

To his surprise, Clover continues- in the exact opposite way Qrow could have expected. “Besides,” the younger man adds, reaching over to place a hand over top of Qrow’s ringed fingers, expression heating up behind his cool façade, “without a soulmate, I could do this without fear of betraying anyone.”

His breath caught in his throat. Swallowing dryly, he raised a brow. “I don’t play with clients.”

“I’m not looking to _play_ , Qrow.”

“I doubt it.”

“Fine.” Squeezing his fingers gently, Clover finally lets go, grabbing his drink and taking another sip. “No worries. I’m a patient man- I’ll just wait until we’re no longer in a business relationship.”

The frankness of those words stuns Qrow. When was the last time someone had hit on him?

And, more importantly, when was the last time Qrow had _liked_ it?

He does not remember. He does, however, find himself eagerly awaiting the day Clover’s hand begins to glow, the faint, shimmering strand upon his little finger solidifying for Qrow’s awaiting blade.

Yet, that glimmer of doubt still lingers on. “You don’t realize just how crushing it can be,” he murmurs. “Cutting away the string means cutting away a part of oneself. I do need you to be really sure you want to do it, Clover. This isn’t a game.”

Somberly, Clover nods. “I know, and I’m quite certain about it.”

“Even though you’ll likely need some support afterwards?”

The younger shrugs, broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his denim jacket perfectly. “I mean,” he murmurs, leaning his elbows onto the countertop, “a little bit of pain for an overall better quality of life. Less worry, less anxiety.”

“More regret.”

“Perhaps.” The confident grin sent his way makes Qrow’s heart flutter, much to his chagrin. “But I’m a grown man. I’m sure I’ll figure it out- it won’t be the first time I’ve regretted a big decision. I doubt it’ll be the last.”

Qrow can only raise his glass, for he recognizes that sentiment far too well. His worry still remains, after all; he knows firsthand how painful it is to lose one’s soulmate, and has inflicted that same pain onto others time and time again. Those strings, while rarely reconnected to others based on the whims of fate, usually withered away, leaving a part of the soul empty.

He does not wish this same fate onto Clover. He does not deserve it.

And yet, the heat in Clover’s eyes, his touch, when they clasped hands before parting ways that fourth meeting eases some of his doubts. At the very least, he knows that after the string is cut, his bed will likely be warm for even just a little while. It shall be a nice change. He almost looks forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

It happens on the sixth time they meet, the realization shifting his worldview completely, knocking his entire planet off-kilter, its axis interrupted irrevocably. There is no way to recover after this, no way to change the way his life has gone, no way to course-correct and refuse the offer from an old friend to introduce him to a new client.

He should’ve never met Clover Ebi. It’s honestly too bad; Qrow was actually having _fun_ while on contract for the first time in a long, long while _._

It begins as an innocent question- one which he has answered time and time again. “Can you see your own soulmate thread?” Clover asks.

Qrow’s mouth twitches. “I used to,” he admits, feigning happiness after years of practice. He is no longer upset about cutting off his thread, after all. It has been far too many years to still hold bitterness within him in regards to the aching, unbearable emptiness he experienced in those dark days; those memories are just a bit older than his niece, however, and he does not regret how his life has panned out. There is no reason to look upon his decision with bitterness.

“What happened?” Clover’s eyes are bright, inquisitive; Qrow has to bite back is laughter as he witnesses first-hand just how quickly the younger shifts from genuinely curious to looking at the situation through the lens of a reporter, his journalistic instinct kicking in, ready to interview this primary resource before it slips away. It is not every day that one can interrogate someone who has lost their soulmate thread, after all.

Rolling his eyes, Qrow leans his chin into his hand, looking over to Clover with a lazy smirk. “Nothing too big,” he lies. “I just realized that I was happier alone.”

He has long since learned to read Clover’s expressions, and tonight is no different; he witnesses the way his brows furrow almost imperceptibly, doubt flitting through green for just a heartbeat before those drooping eyes crease amicably, matching the curve of thin lips forming a kind, knowing smile.

He believes absolutely none of what Qrow says, but Clover is right to doubt Qrow. Someone who makes their living seeing what no one else can holds too much power to ever be absolutely trusted. It is that distrust that makes Qrow feel so at ease with the younger, for he is not a fool, not a simpering idiot who shall trip over himself one day in the name of finding one’s true love.

Still, it is clear that they are in a stalemate. Unless Clover pushes further, Qrow shall not share more details, and unless Qrow shares more, Clover’s curiosity will never be appeased. It is a dance they have played on multiple occasions over the past weeks- Clover asking more about Qrow’s personal life, Qrow asking more about Clover’s past relationships which have led him to decide to cast off soulmates forever. Neither of them will budge, so they have no point but to concede and carry on, for there is no point in spoiling a perfectly genial evening in the name of stubbornness.

Their silent agreement to move on is always instantaneous, the air shifting that pleasant evening as Qrow feels a hand climb onto his knee, gentle, questioning. It makes no move to climb higher, to move further; it simply rests, showing off its presence, a large palm reassuringly gentle, teasingly inviting. Qrow raises a brow as he sips his gin. “You need something, boy scout?”

Clover shrugs nonchalantly, as if nothing has happened at all. “Just wanted to see what’s going on.”

“Eyes up here, buddy,” he replies dryly, pointing to his face. However, he does not pull away, instead shifting closer to the other man by the bar. Clover’s face melts happily at the movement, at the silent assurance that this is okay- that the moment their contract is finished, that hand shall be allowed to move further, that they will step forward eventually together.

Qrow places his glass back down upon his coaster with a wry smile, glancing down as he readies himself to divert attention away from himself and back to the younger; Clover had been in the middle of explaining the case he was investigating as of late and Qrow is far too engaged to allow the younger man’s story to slip away from his attention.

As he looks down, however, his fingers pause as they push his hair out of his eyes, irises locking onto Clover’s hand. The tiny band which has always shimmered faintly around Clover’s little finger glows now, firm and pure and concrete, tangible- a deep, rich crimson which looks almost mahogany in the dim lights of this bar, contrasting perfectly against his tan skin.

His breath catches in his throat, his relaxed smile growing pointed, feral. Despite the doubt and the questions and the dance they continue doing around one another, avoiding missteps by simply letting things go, Clover has clearly given his heart up to Qrow, for his soulmate string has finally, properly materialized.

_It’s time._

A part of him pauses, however; there is always the desire to _look,_ to see exactly to whom Clover’s string is tied. It is easy enough to do, especially if they are in the area. Now that Clover’s heart has opened up, following it shall be an easy task.

Gingerly, Qrow unfurls Harbingers with his left hand, moving underneath the counter by which he sits to lift up the thread using the flat of the spiritual blade. Clover watches him inquisitively, unsure of what is going on until Qrow’s grin grows ever-wider; then, green opens up, his entire face alighting with wonder and joy and curiosity. “Can you see it?” he asks, holding his hand out towards Qrow, barely holding back his delight.

Qrow winks at the younger. “Good to see it only took you a few weeks to fall for me, shamrock.”

The exasperated sigh leaves Clover’s lips with no real malice behind it, so Qrow continues examining the string, carefully raising it to his eye level. It shimmers with an intensity that only belongs to those whose soulmate is nearby, he realizes; that is the only reason for which this cord is so bright its crimson sheen stains Harbinger’s blade with its light. Clover’s soulmate is _incredibly_ close.

He swallows dryly. “Okay. One thing you need to know- your soulmate is actually very close by.”

Clover pauses, doubt flickering across his features once again. “You- you can’t be serious, right? What are the chances of that?”

Qrow shakes his head, expression growing somber. “Dead serious.” He chews his lips for a moment, then sighs, standing up, waving the bartender over.

The younger stands as well, alarm clear as day upon his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not cutting it today,” the elder replies simply with a shrug. “It’s one thing to say you want to cut your string of fate when there’s no way to locate your soulmate without a long journey; when they’re this close to you, though?” He snorts, shaking his head again, the irony of it all filling his mouth with bitter regret. “I’m not going to cut it now when you actually have a really good chance.” Before Clover can protest, however, he lifts up his hand and stops the younger. “I’ll still cut it- we’ve signed a contract. If that’s what you want, then that’s fine. But plans have changed. You need some time to think on it. It’s not exactly the same situation now that I know that they’re nearby.”

Something sours in Clover’s eyes, his lids falling halfway, mouth twisting in a slight, yet clearly dissatisfied, frown. “I suppose you’re the expert,” he says quietly. “Alright. How long should I sit on this?”

Qrow tries to give the younger a sweet smile, for he is speaking out of the kindness of his heart; Clover does not respond, however. With a heavy sigh, Qrow taps his credit card onto the machine brought over by the bartender and punches in a tip, muttering, “If you can hold off for two weeks, then I’ll cut it.”

“See you in two weeks then.” Clover does the same, smiling politely at the bartender once his transaction is finished. He holds out his hand to shake as he shifts his bag onto his shoulder, preparing to head out.

Qrow grabs it without hesitation, his gaze strong, true. “I’ll send you a message,” he says kindly. “Just think about it.”

_Don’t go through what I did if you don’t have to, you idiot._

Harbinger itches by his side- that thread is so clear, so fresh, so _close-_ but Qrow stays his hand, looking back down at the thread tied upon Clover’s finger-

Only for his heart to stop.

The world rushes to a halt. The noises of other patrons chattering gently in the background of the bar fades away. The lights seem to dim, leaving nothing but a spotlight shining furiously upon the two men, illuminated by the sheer irony of it all, the connection almost blinding in Qrow’s eyes.

The string upon Clover’s little finger, in all its dark, vermillion glory, is very short; it does not need to be long, does not need to zigzag across the floor like the strings of so many others within the establishment. This string has absolutely no distance to cover.

After all, the other end leads right back to Qrow’s own hand- where there hadn’t been thread before, there now lies a neat red bow connecting him and Clover together.

Qrow gulps, throat thick, words dying in his throat. _Well, shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just spat this chapter out in maybe 30 minutes... this is where we're at y'all...

“You cannot be serious, Qrow.”

“Do you think I’d fucking _lie_ about this?”

A heavy sigh, a disbelieving snort. “Guess all I can say is ‘you’re welcome’ for introducing you two. So, are you actually going to cut it off, then? You two would be good together, you know.”

“Fuck you, James,” Qrow spits instantly as he hangs up, crouching down to rest squatting upon his haunches. Instantly, he regrets his anger towards his old friend; James had no idea his employee’s connection to Qrow would run so deep. No one could have known.

It doesn’t change the fact that everything is different now.

He runs a hand back through his hair, pushing his bangs up out of his eyes, allowing his gaze to trail upwards to the stars; they are barely visible, the light of Crow Bar’s flickering neon signs drowning out any celestial bodies that may have been present in the distance. The few that remain seem to flicker in his eyes- merely satellites. Fake. Man-made.

Meant to one day break.

_Fate cannot be broken._

He groans, then looks back at his phone. James has sent him a message, long and convoluted as always; the core idea is clear, though. _Whether you tell him or not, you signed a contract._

Qrow does not even want to bother thinking about what will happen in the next two weeks. Clover does not know the truth about his soulmate- he _suspects,_ but the man always suspects everything Qrow says, as he should. When he sees the younger again, however, how in the world shall he face him? Shall he tell him the truth? Shall he hide it?

Either way, James is right. He promised to cut Clover’s red string. As long as Clover asks for it, that is what Qrow is contractually obliged to do.

But what if Clover says no? The younger’s attraction towards Qrow has been made clear time and time again, the longing glances and lingering touches seared deep into Qrow’s skin. His words, no matter how scathing or ridiculous or teasing, always soften when it comes to Qrow, leaving behind nothing but the sense of truly being _cherished_ in a way Qrow has not felt in _years,_ no matter how many temporary lovers he has taken on to warm his bed time and time again.

He glances down, looking at his little finger. The string is so prominent it hurts, pulsing with a vibrant energy that cannot be drowned out by the darkness of night, by the wash of streetlights and shop signs filtering into this dark alleyway. It is undeniable, whole, connected.

He knows strings can reform. He knows that with a strong enough connection, those whose strings have been cut can find their way to another once again. It is exceedingly rare, for fate does not tend to cast its eye upon the same person twice.

And yet, here he is.

_It isn’t fair._

He snorts. Life never is fair- not for him.

For the next week, he does not sleep well. He does not eat well. He finds himself back at the bar again and again- more than a few times, he accepts the invitations from other patrons to go to their homes, intruding upon a different bedroom each night in a desperate attempt to break the thread without Harbinger’s use.

It never works. He knows it is futile. He always wakes up colder than ever, his finger burning, knowing that his soul’s counterpart is just on the other side of town.

A week after his discovery, the patron who slides into the seat next to Qrow is the worst one possible. Clover looks at his nearly-catatonic state with obvious panic, the man abandoning the friend he had come to the bar with in favour of coming to Qrow’s side, immediately trying to gauge the situation. Qrow does not drink heavily around Clover, after all- Clover has never seen the dark side of Qrow’s silent, tumultuous grief. He has never seen Qrow outside of the professional context.

He has never seen how easily Qrow can _crumble_ on his own.

“You still wanna cut it next week,” Qrow slurs once he realizes who exactly is looking at him with such worry and care.

Clover blinks, startled; however, he is quick to recover, as always. “My thread doesn’t matter right now, Qrow. What happened-“

“You don’t understand how painful it can be,” Qrow whispers, laying his head against his arm.

Clover stares at him for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he murmurs, “You’re not going to cut my red string, are you?”

That final question cuts Qrow to the very core, and before he can stop himself, he totters up to his feet and bolts to the dingy bathroom at the back of the bar, cutting in front of the unsuspecting man who had been heading towards the single-person room. He does not bother closing the door behind himself, however, far too focused on opening up the toilet seat in time for the bile and vomit and alcohol to rush up his esophagus, burning every inch of his throat and mouth, the stench and sound of his ungainly retching filling the air unceremoniously. His ears ring, drowning out the disgusted cries of the disgruntled customer he has cut off; he pays it no mind, however, too focused on the bitterness of stomach acid and the ache of self-loathing that has consumed his drunken mind.

He does not want to cut Clover’s string. Almost twenty years earlier, he had cut his own red string of fate right at the source, sawing off the thread’s tie around his own pinky; and then, he had spent the next three years drowning himself in so much liquor to numb the gaping void left in his soul that he could scarcely believe he still lived.

He doesn’t regret it, though. There is no way in hell he would have ever told one of his best friends, his brother-in-law, that their red strings had led to one another. There is no way in hell he would have ever told the father of his nieces, the man he has called a brother since he was in high school, that their hearts had been irrevocably intertwined from the get-go.

Not when Taiyang’s heart had always belonged to Qrow’s sister, and later, their other best friend. Not when Taiyang had always been heterosexual. Not when Taiyang had always wanted a little family of his own, made of his own flesh and blood- not when Qrow could never give him what he wanted.

So, he had cut their string, and Taiyang had tasted what Clover has wanted from the start: freedom. Qrow has suffered for every single bit of that freedom so deeply that even now, the thought of it brings another wave of disgust wracking through his body, forcing tears from his eyes and pain to slice through his heart.

He does not want Clover to go through that.

Panting for breath, he leans his head against the corner of the sink, relishing in the feel of cool porcelain pressed against sweat-drenched skin. If he does not cut it off- if he lies about doing it, if he leaves their threads connected- what then? Clover’s attraction to him has been made clear time and time again, and Qrow knows that if Clover offers, he will join the younger in his bed. However, would Clover still want him if the thread is cut? Will Clover’s feelings die down the moment the single thing tying them metaphysically together is broken?

Qrow reaches up, clutching the material of his blazer over his heart. He doesn’t want to see Clover suffer the way Qrow had when he had cut off his own red string years ago.

He doesn’t want Clover to walk away, though, either.

Cool, gentle hands grab his shoulders, tenderly helping him to his feet. Qrow leans into that touch, seeing Clover’s concerned expression through the mirror hung over the sink, the dim lighting casting deep shadows upon their faces; it is nowhere near enough to blur out the fact that Qrow is a veritable mess, face blotchy and hair clinging to his forehead in his drunken stupor.

Rather than shunning him, however, Clover simply hands him a glass. “Water,” he murmurs. Obediently, Qrow takes it, using half of it to wash out the taste of acid in his mouth before drinking the rest slowly; while he drinks, Clover’s hands lovingly push his hair out of his face, rubbing gentle circles upon his back.

Qrow hates it. He hates this care, this unabashed wanton affection. It’s all built on nothing more than fate.

_In a week, it’ll be built on nothing at all- if it even still exists._

He has to cut the thread. He knows it. He’ll cut it off directly from Clover’s finger, just as he always does to prevent the other party from experiencing pain. This is Clover’s initiative- he shall suffer the consequences, as he should.

…he just wishes that resolve didn’t taste so sour.

Once the glass is empty, he walks back out to the bar with Clover’s help. The younger has already settled the bills, and Qrow can only laugh wearily and grab his coat off his chair when the bartender chides him for overdrinking. In his mind, he promises to call Taiyang to pick him up the moment he can figure out how to unlock his phone while the world still spins around him- he’ll take his best friend’s scolding and his nieces’ worry over the accusatory, frightened way Clover watches him as he rejects Clover’s offer to see him home.

_You won’t want me by next week. It’s okay, Clover. No one ever does._

Clover does not follow him out of the bar when Taiyang arrives to pick him up. Qrow does not look back.

One week left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! This chapter is basically a 2-in-1, but I didn't feel like carving it up into other updates so... yeah LOL. Let me know what you think!
> 
> (Also if you would like to join a cozy little general fandom Discord server, let me know!)

His favourite bar is just as classy as ever, its booths comfortable and refined, the dim ambiance only aided by the light din of other customers speaking underneath the tinkling jazz floating above them all. This is the place where he should feel completely at ease, and yet, Qrow finds that he is anything but comfortable as he awaits his client in a familiar booth at the back of the bar, fingers tapping nervously upon the table, the ice in his Collins glass slowly melting as it sits there, untouched.

_I could just cut it on my end. He’ll never know._

Qrow _would_ know, though. Qrow also knows that he is not strong enough to endure that pain ever again. He suffers no false pretenses on his own strength; losing this soulmate connection which has so unwittingly toppled his world off its axis would break him.

Finally, Clover arrives. They exchange wordless nods as the younger slides into the booth; for once, Clover does not smile when the waitress comes by to take his order, simply asking for a glass of water to begin. “You… you might want to get something to drink,” Qrow mumbles. “You’re going to need it.”

Wordlessly, Clover swaps his glass of water with Qrow’s liquor, for they both know Qrow shouldn’t drink before the deed is done. “There.”

The elder lets out a sigh, the sound bouncing off the younger’s guard miserably. Clover’s expression is worried, conflicted; he shows no weak points with which Qrow can attempt to move his mind away from this inevitable breaking point. Clover can likely tell that Qrow does not want to go through with this. _If only you knew why,_ Qrow thinks bitterly, _and you’d realize why I haven’t slept in two weeks._

“Are you going to cut it here?” Clover asks at last, sipping Qrow’s diluted whiskey.

Qrow sips Clover’s water. It does nothing to quench the dryness in his throat caused by anxiety and fear for Clover. “If you want me to.”

And then, Clover allows the guillotine to fall. “I do.”

Qrow looks into the younger’s eyes, his words falling away as he realizes just how deaf the ears upon which his words fall truly are; Clover has made his choice, and nothing will change his mind of that. This is only underlined by the fact that as he waits for Qrow’s response, Clover reaches into his satchel and pulls out an envelope containing a cheque for the exact amount Qrow is owed for his services rendered. It is exorbitant, as usual.

The guilt makes the transaction feel far worse than it should.

“Freedom to _choose,_ huh?” Qrow murmurs, the irony of it all sour and acrid upon his tongue as he tucks the cheque away into his wallet. “You’ve certainly made _a_ choice.”

He reaches out to pick up his water once again, but he is met with Clover’s touch, the younger man grabbing onto Qrow’s hand as if the elder is the most delicate, wonderful thing in the world. “I’ve chosen you,” Clover says simply. “Why isn’t that enough to just cut it off?”

His words are breathtaking. Qrow cannot handle them.

Pulling his hands away, he clenches his fists upon his lap before one hand retrieves Harbinger from its holster. Clover spares him a strange glance before understanding sets in once again, the younger realizing just a beat too late what exactly rests invisible to the eye in Qrow’s hand; on instinct, Clover holds out his hand, displaying the red string for Qrow to see. “I’m ready.”

Qrow gulps, inhales, exhales, then sighs, slumping back into his chair. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the din of the innocent crowd. He longs to say it, to let the tumultuous words which have caused havoc in his heart over and over again over the past two weeks finally spill forth from his lips.

Looking at Clover’s deadpan expression, Qrow makes his decision. He cannot be the only one to know.

“Even though I know who your soulmate is?”

Clover’s expression is a curious thing, the way it shifts to cope with this newfound information; his brows furrow, rise and relax, nose scrunching then smoothing, lips pressing together into a thin line only to fall agape. The only constant is the look of utter disbelief carved into his eyes, green almost the colour of pine needles in the dim lighting of the bar, thick lashes almost black, outlining his surprise garishly. Qrow takes it in silently, watching, Clover’s breathing stutter before the man splutters, “I- _how?”_

“They’re in this room.”

The disbelief shifts into distrust, just as it should. “You cannot be serious.”

Shrugging, Qrow opens up Harbinger’s blade, running his fingers along the sharpened, gleaming edge of the shimmering, tiny blade. It yearns to touch his string- and soon, it shall have its way. The anticipation of the blade, of Qrow’s soul’s energy, causes the entire piece to thrum and vibrate with an energy that cannot be contained, the hair on the back of Qrow’s neck rising in response to the crackling electricity in the air. He casts a glance at Clover’s bared arms; gooseflesh covers his skin, although he likely does not understand why. “I can show you, if you’d like.”

For a long moment, there is silence. Then, Clover downs another third of the glass, only to nod resolutely. “Okay.”

With this permission, Qrow holds out his hand. When Clover obliges, placing his palm upwards in Qrow’s, the elder places the opened blade’s hilt into Clover’s palm, concentrating on solidifying this little piece of his soul even further. Clover’s eyes widen, horror creeping into his expression; Qrow can imagine what he sees, what he feels, the silhouette and weight of a pocketknife beginning to grow clearer in jade eyes where there previously had been nothing at all.

“If there is even the slightest nick of the thread, you shall feel it. I’ll try and be gentle.”

Before Clover can utter a single word, Qrow demonstrates by sliding the blade against a single fiber extending off of Clover’s little finger. Immediately, the man doubles over in pain, eyes bugging out of his head and mouth falling agape as his soul desperately attempts to save his sanity after being assaulted so suddenly.

“It’s a pain that cannot be forgotten,” Qrow murmurs as air begins to rush into Clover’s lungs once again, the younger gasping and panting for breath now that the initial shock has passed. “That was just the beginning. It’ll haunt you for a long, long time, you know.” He sighs again, the weight of the world upon every syllable. “At least you know that I’m not fooling you now, though.”

Through teary eyes, Clover nods. This admission is enough to start; without hesitation, Qrow begins to trace the back of the blade along the knot tied around Clover’s finger, dragging the dulled side of Harbinger down the thread which shimmers more brightly than anything else in this entire bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clover’s shoulders trembling as the blade brushes against this manifestation of Clover’s soul. As he moves along, however, the shuddering ceases upon Clover’s shoulders and instead begins to wrack Qrow’s body against his will, his fingers trembling as he pushes the blade along their connecting strand all the way across the table until his hand, and the blade which begs to taste spiritual thread, trembles with the sheer effort of keeping their thread intertwined.

When he pulls the blade away from the thread, he places it against the table, then groans, pushing his hair messily out of his eyes. It takes him a moment to calm down after the invasion of his heart to finally breathe properly again; when he is steady once more, he opens his eyes and looks at Clover. There is no more coy, knowing humour in those eyes. Gone is Clover’s mask, his resilience, his persona which he wears as a journalist. He is just… betrayed.

“I wish I were lying,” Qrow breathes.

“I thought you cut yours off.”

“I did.” He smiles humourlessly, the words ashen in his mouth. “It reformed when it found its way to you.”

Clover simply stares at him, finally understanding everything which has been wracking, tearing, _tormenting_ Qrow for the past two weeks. Gone is the judgement and the annoyance, leaving behind only mixed frustration and regret and comprehension, all of which forms the most bitter, broken ensemble Qrow has ever seen.

“I can cut it off. It’s customary to slice it off by the client’s end- to save the unknowing participant the pain. It’ll _hurt._ ”

“You really cut yours off in the past.”

Ignoring the hidden question gleaming in Clover’s eyes, begging for knowledge on why Qrow would ever submit himself to such terrible pain, Qrow merely adds, “If you cut it off, you may not want this-“ and he gestures between the two of them dryly, “-anymore. This might just all be a part of that ‘fate’ which you despise, boy scout.”

The crestfallen look in Clover’s eyes should not hurt as much as it does. However, Qrow is a professional. He will do what he has been paid to do.

Clover’s large hand reaches out, grabbing onto Qrow, gingerly pulling the hand that wields Harbinger towards himself. Qrow allows him this motion- he is just curious about the spiritual object that will severe the tie between them for once and for all- as he prepares to convince Clover to rethink the pain he shall soon feel.

He does get a chance to speak, though. Qrow does not realize it until it is too late, but Clover tightens his grip on Qrow’s hand, and before Qrow can react, Clover guides Harbinger down to sever the thread upon his finger at the base of the knot.

And just like that, the one thing tying them forever… is gone.

Instantly, Clover doubles over in pain, eyes rolling into the back of his head as the string upon his finger disintegrates. Qrow hooks Harbinger back into his belt while he slides out of the booth, making it to Clover’s bench just in time to catch the younger before he collapses completely; Clover shudders and trembles in Qrow’s arms as the elder eases Clover back into his seat, anchoring him in place with his arms around Clover’s waist.

It takes a good few minutes for the convulsions to stop, leaving behind naught but ragged breath heaving against the crook of Qrow’s neck, along with the echoing, visceral void which he can sense upon the edge of his soul. The fallout on his end has left no pain as a burden; it is only Clover who suffers. Qrow can still sense the loss, however, more profound than any words could ever capture.

“You’re an idiot,” Qrow mutters, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of green eyes.

Clover looks up at him, almost drunken from the liquor mixing with the pain, his eyes glazed over, hands clutching his chest with a desperation that Qrow remembers far too well despite the near-decades since he had experienced it himself. “You felt guilty,” Clover gasps.

“It’s my _job._ ”

Somehow, Clover still manages to smile through his pain, an image which chills Qrow to the core. “And you do it well.” His voice is faint, breath ragged and hollow.

Suddenly, Qrow is struck by the wrongness of the situation. This is a client, and their previous attraction to each other must be gone now; it is wrong of him to take advantage, to stay here when their transaction has been completed and when Clover no longer has any reason to want Qrow there. The fallout of cutting his thread is Clover’s sole responsibility, not Qrow’s.

And yet, when Clover breathes against his shoulder, “Stay- I just- need to ca-catch my breath,” Qrow finds himself spellbound.

“Can I-“ _Am I allowed to even touch you now?_

 _“_ Don’t go,” Clover gasps. “Stay- _please._ ”

He does not move, he does not breathe; he merely rests in place, ordering a drink for himself when the bartender finally comes around and more water for Clover, avoiding her confused, curious gaze as wandering eyes try their best to peer into Qrow’s heart, to figure out exactly why one of their regular customers holds this younger man with a desperation that screams they are going to lose one another soon.

As if this is the last time they shall ever see each other.

_It is._

The drink arrives. Qrow downs it in one go, the heat and giddiness hitting him far too quickly thanks to his painfully-empty stomach. For a brief moment, Qrow debates letting Clover go despite his pleas to get Qrow to stay, for there is nothing in this arrangement but heartache, only mounting the longer Qrow clings to what can never be- what has been destroyed by their hands combined.

The alcohol gives him some courage, though. He holds on. It feels right, even though everything else about this situation is wrong.

When the waitress comes to their private booth to get them refills, Clover finally lifts himself off of Qrow. The elder tenses, expecting to see the same empty, shattered gaze he had seen in the mirror for years after cutting off his own thread all those years ago; and yet, he does not see that whatsoever.

Clover is just… quiet.

Without a word, he lifts himself out of the booth. He pays for his drinks. He nods his head towards Qrow.

And just like that, Clover Ebi leaves the bar- and Qrow- behind.

Their transaction is complete.

Qrow does not know how he ends up at the till, nor how; all he knows when he finally drags himself out of his booth is that the bar is suddenly closed, the other patrons gone, the bar silent while the waitress sends him pitying looks, for Qrow has never been turned down before in such an oblique way. She has no idea what the implications of what has just occurred mean, of the intensity of his loss.

Fate had given him a chance to find what everyone else begged to chance upon, and Clover still took the opportunity to let go.

As he opens the door, he winces as a blast of frigid air strikes his cheeks, causing him to bury his face into his scarf. Absently, he makes a list of things to do; he should check in with the girls, and see if Taiyang needs any help with them- he should reach out to James and apologize for blowing up at him, for he still has not reached out after their last heated conversation revolving around Clover- he should contact the next potential client on his queue, for he already has a list of those whose cases will surely be far easier, and far less emotionally taxing, than dealing with Clover Ebi.

He does not make it far out of the door. Leaning against the wall barely ten feet down from the bar’s entrance stands Clover, the man’s face far more vibrant, far more put-together than it had been in the bar. The lively curiosity which highlights Clover’s journalistic instinct is back, his lopsided grin and calm, cheerful visage belonging not to someone whose soul should have been desperately eating itself from the inside out in an attempt to find what it has so suddenly lost.

Qrow opens his mouth to speak. Before he can, however, Clover steps forward. He went for a walk, he says, pointing down the road as if it is naught but a casual, whimsical story he is retelling and not the explicit steps he took to erase Qrow’s existence from his heart. He has gone for a walk around town and come back two hours later, only to see Qrow through the windows when the rest of the patrons have already gone home. He voices what Qrow can see in plain sight, explaining how halfway through the walk, he began to feel better; how now, he feels whole, as if there had never been a problem to begin with.

It does not make any sense. _But- but what about-_

Suddenly, Clover begins walking away. “I’m no longer your client,” Clover murmurs. “Although, I feel like I should get my money back.”

Qrow pauses, watching the younger take a few steps forward into the brisk night air, leaving Qrow behind slightly. “Why?”

Turning on his heel, Clover sends Qrow a smile that is far too sweet to belong to someone who had been whimpering and shuddering in pain for hours earlier. “Because,” the younger quips, a wicked grin on his lips, “I paid _that much money-_ “

“Clover-“

“-only to get the _worst pain of my life,_ and to top it all off, if I’m right, the string didn’t even disconnect!”

And just like that, Qrow realizes that he has lost his mind; or, perhaps, this is what happiness truly feels like, for Clover lifts up his hand underneath a streetlamp, holding it out for Qrow to see.

There is a thread upon his finger once again.

_You chose fate._

He does not know how, does not know why; and yet, the string shining upon Clover’s finger burns a brilliant crimson, shimmering so fiercely that it illuminates the world itself, drowning out the lights of the nightlife. Qrow’s breath catches in his throat as he follows the loop and curve of that thread down to the ground, criss-crossing countless others littering the ground, until the string leads him back to his own pocket.

It looks beautiful glistening against his pale skin. As if this is where it belongs, more than with anyone else.

“But… we cut it.”

“Is it still connected?”

“…yeah.”

“I should get a refund, huh?”

“…I’m sorry-“

“Unless you can pay me back in other ways. Either way, I’m not your client anymore.”

Qrow’s hands are tucked into his pockets. As he watches Clover, he holds up one hand, palm facing the younger head-on; the shimmering thread binding the two men together glistens, renewed under the flicker of nearby advertisements and streetlights. The vermillion is true, pure, untouched.

Unmarred. As if there had never been an incision in the first place.

Without a word, Clover comes back, holding up his hand and placing his palm against Qrow’s. The string glows ever-stronger, eventually shining so bright that Qrow has to look away; the moment he does so, however, he feels Clover’s fingers intertwine with his, their little fingers burning with the connection of their red threads, so indelibly engrained into their very beings.

“I had the freedom to choose,” Clover murmurs. “I could’ve left.”

“…Yeah.”

He repeats what he had told Qrow in the bar earlier that evening. Now, however, those words bear a weight, a truth, to them that cannot be expressed. “I’ve chosen you.”

The wind rushes over them. It is cold. “You really are a lucky bastard.”

Clover squeezes his hand. “Let’s go home, Qrow.”

After a long, long moment of hesitation, trepidation filling his core, threatening to drown him completely, he finally lifts his head high.

This is the first time they have ever left the bar together. The contract is done.

“…Your place or mine?”

Harbinger shines on his belt, illuminating Qrow’s path home, but it does not matter, for the contract has been fulfilled. It has eaten. It is content, and Qrow is truly, unequivocally happy with his life.

**_-fin-_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! 
> 
> Here are my [other FG works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392)
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! See you in my other fics, and let me know what you thought of this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think! <3


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